My Soul to Keep
by Atren Graves
Summary: Avaline doesn't know who she was before the tides brought her to shore. She doesn't know how she came to be here. She only knows that she's wounded (shattered) and lost (planted) and she isn't sure yet she wants to know why. But what worth is there to be found in ignorance?
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Not a very new idea, but I'm hoping I've put a little bit of a spin on things.

Cleaned up and reposted from elsewhere. Short chapters because I'm keeping with the original format instead of condensing snippets.

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 _Water, wind. The crashing of waves on the shore_.

Is it a memory? Familiarity? Or is it just...the overwhelming sensation of it, that makes it seem to fill her head?

 _Wet sand. Shifting beneath her fingers_.

Pain. She gasps, coughs, pulls herself upright despite the shaking in her arms, the burning across her back. Waves crash again, a warm tide rushing across her legs. White foam curling around her...hands.

 _Her hands_.

Forward. Crawling, hands and...knees. Dragging through sand until...dry. Soft, and warm, and it's all she can do to turn, to collapse onto her back instead of face-first.

 _Stars. Shining, beautiful points of light in the endless cold of the sky. And the wounded moon, shards still trapped in its orbit-_

The pain strikes again, sharp and constricting. Breath stolen, lights flashing behind her eyes...when it recedes and she comes back to herself, she can't feel her fingers. Hands cramped, clenched into claws in the sand. She frees them, jaw tight with the effort of uncurling them again…

Why does it hurt?

She doesn't know. She doesn't know where she is, either...where? How had she _gotten_ here? And that question, that recognition of an empty space in her mind, draws her attention to others. More questions without answers. Including…

"Who am I?"

That's her voice? It hurts, like the rest of her. It scratches, painfully...sand? Salt? Her throat feels so dry, thirst burning-

 _Avaline_.

It strikes her, and she latches onto it with everything she is. Whatever little that might be, in the moment. A name. Her name? It must be. It feels...it feels right. Her name. Avaline.

"I'm Avaline."

Yes, yes, that's good. Not everything is empty. Missing. There's still...a name. And maybe...a memory of a beach? Not this beach. She doesn't know this one.

The pain is still receding, bit by bit. Enough that she's willing to try moving again. To push herself up until she's sitting. Until she can see the horizon, not just the sky.

 _It's strange, and beautiful_.

But still, unfamiliar. So she pushes herself. Stands, weakly, unsteadily. Casting around for anything, any sign of...something. How she'd arrived? Other people? The marks she'd left in the sand are already being washed away by the tide; how long had she laid there, insensate? What clues could be left behind? What chance was there…?

Little now. She spits out the grit in her mouth, swallows dryly, turning inland. The high stones piled there.

"Enough...lingering about." There's nothing for her, here. But maybe...maybe ahead?

With uneasy steps, she moves.

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She finds higher ground. And then, a path. Wide, and worn by narrow furrows, and hoofprints and...boots. She kneels beside the marks, for a moment. Traces the crescents, dipping her fingertips into the shapes to feel their depth.

Horses, she knows. Somehow. As she looks across the freshest of them, she can see the animal in her mind's eye. The prints and their spacing lend it form, the length of its stride lends it motion, and life…

She shakes the images away, and continues. Someone came this way, recently, and they were in no rush. Near to home, maybe. She can hope.

 _She_ can _hope?_

Walking grows easier, and more difficult in turns. Smoother, no doubt, as she regains her balance. As the last of the pain fades out of focus. But she's _exhausted_ , and every step, every moment, adds to that weight.

The sight of lights ahead is a relief. But when the road first turns to stone pavement, a wariness creeps into her heart. It slows her approach, leaves her shivering. When, at long last, she reaches the edge of the township, she's reduced to a slow creep.

She circles wide around the mouth of every alley. Edges around every shadowed space. Every corner draws her up short again. For reasons she can't understand, she feels... _vulnerable_.

And then she hears something. She hears...music. And laughter, but the laughter is bright and wholesome, rather than...rather than? Another empty space. All she knows is that this laughter sets her at ease.

The door is open. And despite the noise, the _numbers_ inside, she feels...safe.

It's a slow, shambling walk to the...bar. She shies from the eyes the drift her way, shivers as the warmth of the room seeps into her.

The man _behind_ the bar looks hale. Healthy. His expression is creased with honest concern. "Hey, are you okay miss?"

Is she? She considers. Waking on the beach. The pain, the empty spaces in her memory that she's already realized _must_ have taken the place of a life. She feels the ache, the weariness, and the alarming _fear_ that the outside had brought.

"It's...been such a _long_ night."

And that feels right, she thinks as the darkness finally closes in. She barely feels the impact as she drops to her knees, to the floor.

She's unconscious before the quiet uproar her collapse brings. And she remains unaware, as she is bundled off to a room, to be cared for.

To finally rest. If just for a little while.


	2. Chapter 2

Avaline wakes in a haze.

Light. Warmth. A gentle hum overhead. The creak of footstep and murmur of voices somewhere below. She blinks away the bleariness of sleep...realizes, when that doesn't work, that the blurring isn't bleariness.

She sits, slowly, stiffly. Frees a hand from the bedding to wipe the tears from her face, to clear her...eye. Her right. The left is covered. Bandaged? But nothing seems...it doesn't feel wrong. As she stands, as she looks around the room, she realizes that it _isn't_ wrong. The eye had been covered when she first woke. It must have been. And it had just been…

 _Beneath her notice_?

But these bandages are tight enough to feel, obvious and constricting...is she wounded? It's hard to tell. She feels _wretched_ , and the pressure of the bandages isn't comfortable. Is the dull and distant pain beneath it because of an injury?

The room is small. Sparse. A bed, a dresser...a mirror. She swallows, winces at the feeling. Stares at her reflection's face as it scrunches in discomfort. Tries to smooth out her expression, turning this way and that to...see? Examine? To try and find some familiarity in this face. In the sharp features. Pale hair, salt-dried and falling loose of its braid...there are scars. Three, pale lines, tracing down from her jaw to her shoulder. Her fingertips fit them almost perfectly…

She lingers at the bandages. She wants to see, to know, to be sure. But when she pulls at them, she feels _anxious_. Assaulted by images of a dead, sightless thing. Or of...of something twisted, and damaged. Of infection, veining from the injury and creeping into her brain.

 _Of something terrible_.

The bandages are slammed to the dresser-top, beneath her hands. She struggles to slow her panicked breathing, to look away from the stained wood, to look _up_...just for a moment. A glance. And then, slowly, her head turns up.

Nothing. No damage, no ruin, no infection. Just...an empty socket. _Truly_ empty, nothing left but a hollow of skin over skull.

The pain lingers, ephemeral. Like a memory.

Why?

She clutches the bandages and turns away from her reflection. Covering her eye again...her hands move easily to the task. Without thought or direction.

Clean bandages...but her clothes are the same. Not just similar; they smell of the ocean. Discoloration on the knees of her trousers, on the front of her shirt. Wet sand, dried into place but not all shaken loose by her walk, or by the bedding…

She remembers pain. Someone bandaged her head.

There are no bandages beneath her shirt, but with some twisting, with a turn, she finds more scars. Strange scars. A slanted circle of white across her stomach, wider across than her hand. A line of punctures, running up her back, along her ribs. Four, neat holes. A fifth offset…

But they're all old scars. Smooth, almost...faded? Why would they hurt?

She dresses again. Smooths herself down out of...oh. A habit, maybe. That was nice?

Still, so many questions. And she'd find no more answers in this little room. Maybe...maybe her hosts will be able to offer more.

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The proprietor's name is Sal, and he had not only furnished the room she'd woken in, but arranged a visit from a local physician while she slept. That visit had come and gone; she'd slept for the better part of two days. This is the second morning since she'd arrived late into a busy night.

He tells her that their concerns had been proven unnecessary. That she had showed no signs of recent injuries, only exhaustion and dehydration; _this_ he tells her over a glass of cool water, drawn from a sink behind the bar.

"You'll need a few days, but it won't be a difficult recovery." He smiles as he speaks, busying himself again with some manner of maintenance in the guts of a machine that hums and clunks. "Stumbling into town like you did, I'd say you're damn lucky for that." Is it luck? She's not sure. But she feels rested, for the first time in her memory. And the water feels good, soothing her sore throat. "It's been eating at me though, I'll admit. What happened to you out there?"

She tells him about waking up on the beach. The pain that had wracked her, the confusion of it all. That she remembers her name, and little else.

It's not a long story. By the time it's done, Sal has pulled himself out of the machine again to lean on the bar across from her. "Amnesia...no joke?"

She isn't sure why anyone would joke about something like this. So she shakes her head. "No joke."

"Well, shit." Sal wipes his hands on his pants, nodding toward the exit. "Let's go report you missing, then."

Oh?

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The local constabulary are...kind enough. They take her name, and take photographs. Promise that they will share any word they will make an effort to inform her of any developments in the course of their search. It feels empty, though. And when Sal offers her a room at his inn in favor of an empty holding cell, she accepts.

Which is how she finds herself in fresh clothes, behind the bar. Fumbling with bottles and taps she'd only been briefly introduced to. Handling the money is easier, in some ways, while the customers are, in the grand scheme of things, irrelevant.

The sun sets, outside. The work continues, until it ends. Sal offers a fold of Lien before sending her up to her room.

She sits by the window, and watches the moon until she falls asleep.

 _She's found a safe place_. _That's good._


	3. Chapter 3

There's less than she would have thought involved in building a new life.

She has the most important things, as far as she can tell. A place to stay and a means to procure other necessities. And after that, there's very little that actually needs attending. New clothing. A few sundries. Temporary records of her residency, to be updated as necessary as more information comes to light.

It takes her less than a day. And then...then she works behind the bar. Tentatively explores the town, its rustic charms.

"Fishing's our trade." Sal tells her, when she offers her thoughts on the matter. "Keeps us humble. I visited Vale once and let me tell you, I like our little spot much better."

So, it's quiet. Peaceful. She may still wake from fleeting, blank dreams with a bone-deep melancholy, but the sleep is restful all the same. And the pain, the fear, from that first night has yet to reemerge to the same extent.

In four days, she's already grown comfortable with her place.

But…

It's early in the evening, on the fifth day. She's more confident with her understanding of what the inn offers, serving pints and pitchers and bowls of soup and stew from the kitchen behind the bar. She can very nearly handle their bills in her head, though she obviously still makes use of the register Sal keeps on hand.

Her host and employer obviously trusts in her, as well, because he's been in conversation with a man across the bar for almost half an hour. She catches snippets of their focus, vague mentions of 'rallies', of 'good haul this week, she says', and 'why do you think I'm here?'.

She pays it little mind, really, until Sal draws her attention. He's smiling as he waves her over, motioning to his friend when she draws nearer. "Mason, this is my newest employee, Avaline. I hired her because her story is probably the most excitement this place has seen since the Cactus spirits incident...Avaline, my good friend Mason, who has an inexplicable talent of paying his tab at the very last moment."

It was an interesting sort of introduction, and Sal seemed to know it if his reaction to their speculative looks is anything to go by. But Avaline shakes it off quickly enough to smile at what is surely a valued customer. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mason."

His own smile is bright and toothy, his fangs flashing in the warm lighting.

Someone says something more, but Avaline doesn't hear it. She _does_ hear glass shatter, which...ah. She'd _been_ holding a bottle, hadn't she? Something...alcohol. It's hard to be sure.

Her world has narrowed to a flash of light on enamel. She breathes, deeply, scenting the air for...for something. Anything. But there's nothing to explain the cold, nothing that fits into the blank space in her mind. But that doesn't stop her...panic?

Heart racing. Roaring in her ears. She tries to breathe out again, but it catches, freezes, her chest constricting, extremities numbing-

Movement. She tries to react, to separate herself from it, but her body locks up. It feels so wrong, the stilted stumble into the bar. It feels _wrong_ , and that makes things _worse_.

She's breaking down, for reasons she doesn't understand.

 _If it goes on much longer, she might hurt herself_.

The tension snaps, falling away so quickly there's nothing to stop the darkness closing in.

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She returns to consciousness slumped over the bar, her hands latched onto the edge and barely keeping her upright.

There's a hand on her shoulder. Sal. Customers watching her. She sees them all as she lifts her head, and many of them look away. A worried, wary... _Mason_. The expression doesn't seem to mesh, quite, with what she'd...felt.

 _Felt_ , because at the moment, she doesn't feel much of anything at all.

"Avaline." Sal says, with a serious look that brooks no argument. "Take a break."

She takes it as a dismissal. Not quite retreating from the bar, she finds herself in the kitchen. It's quieter, there. More secure; a solid door and a single exit, easily monitored for movement. Hearing can't always be trusted, after all.

Can't it?

She wants to know _why_. Why these thoughts? Why this...distant certainty? Why this empty feeling, this disconnect? Why the blanks in her head, the loss of...of _everything_? Why had she woken on a beach in a place where no one recognized her, why was she in _pain_ , why was she so terribly frightened of a man with odd _teeth_?

In this moment of fearful clarity, the _whys_ that she has let in are awful, terrible things.

Why must she be left with this uncertainty?

 _Because ignorance is bliss_.

No, that was trite. It rang false, even as she thought it, because _this_ , whatever had just happened, was not bliss. It was the furthest thing from it.

 _Because she remembers more than she knows._

Perhaps...that _could_ be the truth of it, couldn't it? Memories might be beyond her grasp, but there were obviously responses. Could those be clues of her past? Something she could follow, to help narrow the search already being undertaken?

Another thought occurs, as images of those strange scars flash in her mind, as she considers her reactions just moments ago. It seems increasingly likely that her past is not a _pleasant_ thing. But that's another thought that she dismisses out of hand. Because the fact of the matter remains; _not_ knowing is worse, if it leads to situations like this.

The kitchen door swings open. Sal, of course. He's concerned for her. "Hey, are you alright? Do you know what all that was about?"

She doesn't. Not really. So she shakes her head, and swallows down the unsettling feelings. "I'm sorry for the trouble."

"It's no trouble. But are you good? I don't need you smashing any more of my stock." It's worded as a reprimand, but he can't hide the upward twitch of his lips.

And Avaline appreciates the humor. "I should manage to avoid doing that."

He takes her word on the matter. Which is how she finds herself behind the bar again, offering reassurances to a reticent Mason, and his... _lively_ wife, Vivian, who does seem to love talking about her fishing crew's exploits.

Avaline spends the rest of the evening attempting _some_ measure of conversation with the pair, when she isn't serving drinks or trying not to stare at the patches of glimmering scales that spread from Vivan's webbed hands. They do her the courtesy of pretending not to notice and she, in return, ignores the way they whisper to one another, and how their eyes drift to her bandaged eye. The scars on her neck.

They're some of the last to leave, Mason offering his farewells while Vivian leans across the bar to pull Sal into what looks to be a painful hug. And while they _were_ very friendly, she was glad to see the back of them.

An uncharitable thought, especially seeing as their friend was providing for her.

"I hope I didn't upset them."

Sal considers her for what seems like a very long time before snorting and sweeping a trio of mugs into a tub. "If they'd been upset, you would have known. Go get some rest."

It seems that was to be the end of that, then. She wishes him a good night, and retreats to her room. Ensures the window is secure and places her single chair beneath the door-handle before settling in.

Despite the... _excitement_ , earlier, she finds herself drifting off with surprising ease.

In the space between waking and unconsciousness, she imagines a gentle voice welcoming her home.

 _But she doesn't dream, in dark._


	4. Chapter 4

Officer Greene is a kindly, older man. His looks are a bit unruly, a coarse beard and mustache taking away a bit from his professional air. But Avaline appreciates his frank (if not sympathetic) take on her current situation.

"No reports." He tells her, as he lays out the sparse file which represents her 'case'. "Nothing conclusive on any local registry in easy communications range. The name 'Avaline' appears three times, but none of them match your description. A couple of false leads on your photo, but they shut down too fast to be anything but mistaken identity. And with nothing else to go on but that…?"

"A dead end." She finishes the thought with a sigh. "Am I unlikely to be found, then?"

Greene shakes his head. "All it really tells us is that you're not from the area. We've put a request through to Vale, and if they don't find anything there it'll probably go out to the other Kingdoms...but you need to understand, it's a low priority case. If I were you, I wouldn't expect a real response any time in the next few months. Possibly longer." With that said, his expression softens. "That said, there's good odds that you've got people looking for _you_ too, or will have soon. If they put some work it...could be we meet them halfway. Get you identified sooner."

Yes, of course. There's no indication that she _doesn't_ have people who might take note of her disappearance. Friends, or...family, maybe. Loved ones…?

It's a bittersweet thought, and she tries not to linger on it. "Thank you, officer. Your efforts are greatly appreciated."

He nods, and gathers up the file, apparently unconcerned by the lack of attention she'd paid it. And once it's stowed away in his desk, he adjusts his tie and leans forward in his seat. "Okay then. Now that business is taken care of...Sal called to talk. Seems you had some problems the other night?"

"Ah." Her brows furrow at that, as she frowns in thought. "Yes, I did." Though she didn't like the thought that it had become some sort of... _gossip_. "An uncomfortable reaction that I can't account for."

"You had a panic attack, and no idea what caused it." Is that what it had been? She doesn't have a better word for it. So she nods. "We're lucky enough to have a doctor with some experience in mental issues. He works with the department sometimes, making sure everyone's got their head on straight. I've talked to him about your situation. And I'd like you to do the same."

It sounds like a suggestion, but there is something in his eyes that Avaline takes to mean it was not quite so lax a thing.

"How might I arrange that?"

"I'll get you his number."

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The doctor arranges to meet her in a home office. There's very little in the place that she feels could be associated to a 'doctor'. That word, to her mind, brings impressions of dim light, of hard beds. A soft and subtle feeling of unease. Healing, at the cost of discomfort.

Doctor Oliver's study is well lit by wide windows, left open to the afternoon sun. It's warm, but a ceiling fan turning overhead keeps it from being stifling. There's a desk, and a comfortable chair...shelves of books and bric-a-brac. Sharp, colorful pictures.

"I'm not actually an expert." He tells her, once they've made their introductions and settled into their respective places. "I've studied psychology, but it's not my practice. The most I can really offer is advice. And what that means, Avaline...is that my ability to assist you is entirely dependent on how much you're willing to put up with my prodding."

He's smiling as he says it, and she supposes she can see the humor in it. It's reassuring. Which, maybe, is the point.

"So, Officer Greene shared with me what he considered to be the pertinent details of your situation. Now that you're here...why don't you tell me what _you_ think I should know about all of this."

She does just that. As disconcerting as it all is, she values the chance at answers more than any sort of...pointless 'privacy'. What has she to gain from hiding the fact that the dark, empty streets had frightened her so deeply? What benefit would there be in refusing to say a sharp smile made her black out?

She shares her brief experiences; those that seem abnormal, at least. She shares her concerns about her amnesia, the questions that plague her when she allows them a moment to catch up. And there's something cathartic in the experience, in saying the words. Like lancing an infected wound, draining the sickness. Nothing is fixed, in truth, but the relief is its own reward.

The doctor does ask questions, of course. Clarifications. He's helpful in keeping things focused, and directed. And once she's done, he considers.

"I'm sure you don't need me to tell you that your situation is troubling." She nods agreeably, while he works to pick his words. "The amnesia alone, the loss of your…'life', as it was, is a daunting sort of problem to approach." He taps his pen, thoughtfully, then stands away from his desk to approach a bookshelf. "And in order to help, we'll need to ensure you have the means to do so."

So she sits, and listens, and moves when asked to read over his shoulder. He explains the difficulties of trauma, and its effects. The methods of recognizing such things, and of combating them.

 _The advice is useful_.

He elaborates on exercises outlined in the book, defining their purposes for her. Wondering out loud as he invites her to choose those that seem useful. Positive distractions, practicing relaxation...reactionary measures. Things to be kept in mind. But…

"I worry, doctor. I've no way to judge...I'm not sure what _will_ cause these 'attacks'." And she can hardly imagine remembering a breathing exercise in the state she'd been in after...after a _smile_ of all things. "Am I to rely on trial and error to recognize the signs of forgotten trauma?"

He seems at a bit of a loss, with that. Sympathetic, certainly, but he has little more to offer than a nod. "Short of your memory returning...that may be the only option available to you. For now." There's a moment where he considers the book again...and then he snaps it shut and pulls open a desk drawer. Comes up with a pad of paper, and a fresh, capped pen. "For now, I want you to keep a list. Whenever you feel something, anything that touches on one of these 'blanks', I want you to write it down. What it is, what it makes you feel, everything you consider is relevant."

It's a straightforward idea, and she nods as she takes the writing implements. "And as I do, I may be able to discern a pattern."

"Exactly." He turns in his chair to face her more fully, expression earnest. "It may just lend us some insight into what's happened to you. And the more you know, the better equipped you'll be to handle it."

Her faint, hopeful smile fades by degrees, as she stares down at her hands. As she uncaps the pen, and tries to commit to paper the sickly, prickling feeling that settled into her stomach as he'd said that.

"A place to start. If nothing else."

 _His concern is touching, but the curiosity in his eyes turns her stomach_.


	5. Chapter 5

She's adjusting. The quiet routine of her environment is settling her nerves, soothing those sharp edges that her strange arrival had left. She still stays in at night, still nurses a quiet wariness of strangers when they aren't situated across a solid counter from her. She still watches the moon, some nights, with memories of that bone-deep pain of waking up clear in her mind.

She keeps her list.

Most of the responses there are negative. The fleeting sensation of burning, at the sight of fire licking out of the oven. Or the brief, now familiar panic at the sight of Sal taking the head off a fish with his cleaver. But there are a few, small things that aren't so terrible. The sound of a music box evokes a quieter sort of melancholy, and something in lantern-light feels like coming home after a long day. Once, she catches herself humming, the tune light and almost achingly familiar...gone, slipping her grasp like mist the moment her attention had shifted.

The questions remain, and more arise, but there's something about a life that's so very compelling. Every day she has just a little more to hold onto. A little more to keep. And time, even so _brief_ a time, dulls her drive for answers.

They'll come, or they won't.

For the moment, Avaline is...secure. If not content.

It's enough.

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* * *

Until, of course, it isn't.

It begins as another quiet night at Sal's. Her employer and landlord busying himself in the kitchen, the locals relaxing after their days. Mason sits at the corner of the bar furthest from the door, and when she isn't serving drinks or meals he tells her about the kingdom of Vacuo, across the ocean. His stories of its deserts and oasis jungles are tinged with the fondness of nostalgia, but Avaline can't find it in herself to be envious.

 _Envy...envy serves no good purpose_.

It's a good night. Much the same as most nights. What _does_ set it apart, though...is the group that steps in, shortly after ten o'clock.

Travelers aren't an unusual thing. The township isn't situated on any sort of major roadway, but _does_ connect with a trade route and several smaller villages further down the coast. What's more, Sal runs an _Inn_ , so it only made sense that whatever travelers _were_ passing through would wind up here.

No, it wasn't odd to see strangers tromping through the door, dusty and tired from a day on the road. But Avaline couldn't say she'd yet been blessed by quite so _colorful_ a sight as these. Nor had she seen a group quite so...heavily armed.

"I'm sorry, Mason." She interrupts, setting the glass she'd been 'polishing' aside in order to retrieve the notepad from her trousers pocket. "I'll just be a moment."

He'd asked, the first time she'd done this, but now he just nods. She's thankful for his understanding…

' _Weapons. Unease, like an ache.'_ is the best she can do, to document the feeling. A _general_ feeling, not as sharp as some things, but the most prevalent across all her findings...after a pause, a moment of self-examination, she adds ' _my hands tremble'_ , and tucks the pad away.

"You okay?"

His concern does him credit, and Avaline nods, offering a grateful smile. "As well as can be expected." She looks to the group again, and this time he follows her gaze. Given how agreeable he's been in acquainting her with the world, she voices the question, "Is there a reason they're going about so armed? And...oddly dressed?"

He snorts, obvious amusement, and shakes his head as he faces forward again. "You've got some of the strangest gaps in what you know." She's reached the point where that remark draws a smile, rather than uncertainty. But he gives her an apologetic look a moment later, all the same. "Anyway…"

This is what happens.

Mason says a word that sounds very much like 'they're'. He opens his mouth for the next.

The breath goes out of the world.

And Mason closes his mouth.

Avaline is left dazed, a part of her still locked in the brief, _deafening_ eternity she'd just experienced. As he looks at her, concern creeping into his expression, it's all she can do to latch onto her last thought. "I'm sorry. I believe I... _missed_ that. What you just said."

"I was just saying, they're probably-"

The world retreats again, stilled just as Mason's lips touch the first sound...and then it _jumps_ , as they close around the last.

Her ears pop. Ring. She's _struck_ by vertigo, and clutches her stomach as if that would abate the sudden nausea she feels.

Mason reaches across the bar. His hand on her shoulder is steadying in a way she wouldn't have expected. "Avaline, tell me what's wrong. Do I need to get Sal?"

"No." It's a little too loud, and she struggles for a moment to drop her voice, not to speak over the ringing. "No, I'm-" She is _not_ alright. That much is patently obvious. But she's no more _unwell_ than she's been before. "You were saying a word. You said it twice, but I…" Hadn't heard it? Hadn't _seen it spoken_? "What was it?"

"If it's affecting you like this, I'm not sure I should _tell_ you."

 _He's right. Some things are best left alone_.

Was this one of those things, though? "I-" Maybe it was. Did she expect her reaction would change? Others had, but this...this had been different. It _felt_...different.

She pulled out her list. She wrote, in shaking hand, something that almost was like what she'd just experienced. But when it came to it... "Mason? Could you-?"

He takes the pen, and the pad when it's offered. And he spends a few moments looking over the list. Looking up at her. He scratches down a word, filling the blank space she'd left. Been _forced_ to leave. He gives the list back.

She expects nothing, and nothing is what she sees. They're letters, she's sure of that, but they...their number and arrangement seem to shift, moment to moment. Like motes in her eye. Even the words around it are blurred, seemingly influenced by its very presence.

"...I think I'll be...retiring early, tonight." She tucks the pad away again, swallowing thickly. "Sal will be out shortly, I'm sure...thank you for your assistance, Mason."

"Yeah, yeah, no problem. I'm sorry about…" He trails off. "Sorry. Have a good night, right?"

She thinks that, maybe, she's a bit past that already. But she appreciates the thought, so she offers a shaky smile and a nod before retreating. Sal, when she finds him moments later, is painfully understanding. The way he asks no questions, the way he waved off her apologies, makes her feel undeservedly blessed.

Still, she wastes no time making her way upstairs to her room (again). Closing herself away from the world ( _again_ ).

Sleep does not come easily. And she wakes no few times, in a cold sweat, remembering only enough of her dreams to know that they aren't pleasant.


	6. Chapter 6

_This isn't working_.

There's very obviously something wrong. Something more than being lost, something more than missing memories. There's a word, on her list, that she _cannot perceive_. That can't be heard, or seen, and that is _not_...that isn't an injury.

"This is by design."

Doctor Oliver concurs, his mouth turned down in a thoughtful frown as he continues to examine the list. "If there had been other difficulties with language I'd pass it off as damage from whatever trauma might have caused your amnesia. But this is... _specific_." Lines deepen across his face as his expression darkens. "Taken as a whole, this is a pattern. Your aversion to weapons, to specific situations. And _this_ …"

He knows more than she does. He has the _word_ after all. It grates, the very idea of it. She feels more helpless in this moment than any other since she'd pulled herself off of the beach. "Can you help me?"

"I have a suspicion you'll want to find a specialist, if you intend to pursue this any further." The doctor shifts behind his desk, takes up a pen, and sketches out a brief note. "Officer Greene is still handling your case?"

"As far as I'm aware."

"Then I'll give him a call shortly. And I'd like you to find the time to speak with him about finding your way to Vale."

"Your suggestion is that I leave?"

"My suggestion is that you seek qualified help." He meets her eye, expression firm. "If someone has _tampered_ with your ability to remember, gone so far as to put measures into place to prevent you from uncovering the truth, then you need more than what I can offer. And even if that's _not_ the case...getting a second opinion from someone that's properly qualified couldn't hurt."

There's truth in that. It's just…

 _She doesn't want to leave._

It hasn't been long, but she's grown comfortable here. The idea of leaving isn't one she relishes…

But there's something wrong, and she can't simply hide from it. Not when she stumbles across more signs, more reminders, every time she thinks she's finally settled in. "I'll arrange a meeting. Thank you."

"I'm sorry I couldn't do more."

As though she could blame him for that…

* * *

 _ **xxxxxxxxxx**_

* * *

It almost surprises her, how easily things are arranged. She gathers what few possessions she'd collected, her meager savings. Sal wishes her the best of luck. Officer Greene gives her a list of travel instructions, and the contact information she'll need when she arrives at her ultimate destination. He even helps her into the back of the wagon.

She watches the fishing town disappear behind her with a growing sense of unease.

Her traveling companion for the next day is a man by the name of Eugene, who makes his living carting goods between the towns nearest.

"It's a safe enough area. Regularly patrolled." He explains, gesturing out at the woods with his shotgun while the horses trot along. "The main roads further on are trouble, at least through the first stretch. You need trucks and such for those. Though I hear there's plans to bring the rail line down a little further this year."

She thanks him for the information, of course, but she has little to offer to continue the conversation. Or to start others. So the first day is spent stewing quietly, chasing unsettling thoughts around her brain.

* * *

 _ **xxxxxxxxxx**_

* * *

The next day, she's bid Eugene goodbye to meet Stella and Sloane. Drivers for one of the…trucks that he had mentioned. It's a lumbering thing. Big, heavy, and armored. After a brief introduction (by way of the local chief of police) they offer her a place in the cab.

They don't leave immediately. Waiting for 'security', which comes in the form of a tall man in light armor and carrying a heavy gun. Avaline watches from the background as friendly conversation is had, smiles and handshakes. The stranger boards the truck through a door in the back.

"He'll ride with the cargo?"

"Easier to get out, in an emergency." Stella, the spokeswoman, laughs as she says it. "Now c'mon. We've got a schedule to keep!"

It seems they do…

The cab is more spacious than it seems from the outside, with what seems to be a compact sleeping quarters set behind the seats. Which is where Sloane tucks himself away to make room in the front.

"Settle in folks. We've got three stops to make and I want to hit Vale before tomorrow night."

That's all the warning she has before the whole vehicle _growls_. And she does her best to…'settle in'.

* * *

 _ **xxxxxxxxxx**_

* * *

Stella is more talkative than Eugene. Over the course of an hour, she draws Avaline's story out.

In its entirety. And that's a stark realization. An entire lifetime, in less than an hour…

It's not something to dwell on. And not dwelling is easy, because Stella is more than willing to match her reticence with a strange and unfamiliar sort of energy. She talks, about the work she and her partner ('Soon to be husband!') do, about her favorite places in each stop on her route...about music, and 'movies' (which require some explanation), and the book she's been reading.

Sloane chimes in exactly once, to cast aspirations on the ending of that book. The tirade that follows eats away another half hour.

And then, as the sun begins to make its way below the horizon, they make their arrival. And Avaline stands aside to watch the business being done. The work of unloading, sorting, loading...in that time, the armored man, the 'security', finds her.

"So, you're headed to Vale?"

It seems an odd thing to ask. Still, she nods. "I am." Already on the road for the better part of two days. It _feels_ like it's been so much longer…

 _She shouldn't have left._

There were the doubts again. Despite her efforts to convince herself, they keep coming back. Nagging things, leaving her with an urge to... _claw_ them out. She doesn't, of course, but the urge is there. It…it's something she should put on her list.

She does just that. Two lines beneath the blur, well outside its influence.

"Keeping notes, huh?" The security speaks up again. "Are you hoping the be a driver?"

"No." Or...she thought not. She _would_ need to work, but she has concerns. Things that constant travel would hardly serve. "It's an exercise." Still serving its purpose, more likely than not. Though how this particular feeling ties in with the rest she isn't sure. Yet…

"...you're not the easiest person to talk to, huh?"

She looks up from the page, sees his smile. The way his eyes dart to her, just for a moment, before settling on the workers again.

"I've little to talk about."

It's only after he awkwardly excuses himself that she realizes she may have handled that poorly. But...it's easy enough to put aside. She watches as the last of the cargo is loaded.

They leave almost immediately after.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: And here's the last of these that's written, for the moment.

* * *

 _ **xxxxxxxxxx**_

* * *

 _Rustling feathers. A rasping voice. The distant noise of gunshots. The ring of a blade._

Avaline wakes in a cold sweat, breathless, pain in her neck and back. In the moment it takes to orient herself, another gunshot cuts through the cab. "What-?"

"Nothing to worry about." Sloane murmurs from the driver's seat. He doesn't look away from the road in front of them, so brightly illuminated in the night...a dark mass hits the hood with a meaty _thunk_ , and he doesn't even blink. "Just a flock of Nevermore. Thomas is keeping them off our backs, and these little ones won't do much more than leave dents up here."

Another _thunk_. Avaline stares, squinting past the light to see fluttering wings, darker than the night surrounding them. Lit, for the briefest moment, by the flash of another gunshot. A dull, phantom _sting_ in her empty eye-socket makes her turn away.

 _These things, outside...are evil things. Unnatural. She shouldn't have left the fishing town._

"We'll be through it in a minute. You can go back to sleep."

She shifts, in her seat. Shivers. "I'm not sure I could."

He hums, understanding. "Well, just settle in then." He offers her a faint smile, glancing her way. "Maybe check the radio, see if w-"

A flash of white-on-black. Sloane sees, wrenches the wheel, but the shape is struck. It goes under. The truck jumps. The world spins.

 _No!_

Impact.

* * *

 _ **xxxxxxxxxx**_

* * *

 _Growling. Snarling. Claws on metal. Gunshots, and a frantic shout_.

Avaline groans, as she drags herself into consciousness. Pain, in her head. Tight around her chest...straps, digging into her. Pressure...she's hanging. The truck is on its side.

Movement, behind her. Hushed voices, breathless, pained, frightened.

Movement, outside. The heavy _huff_ of something large, the metallic _thump_ of something hard striking the cab.

"Avaline, stay _very_ still." Stella hisses. Avaline can't see, but there's a sound very much like the action of a gun. "Beowolves."

She says that, that _word_ , but all Avaline can hear is _Beasts_.

 _She shouldn't have come here._

More movement. Heavy ( _sickly_ ) breathing, harsh and animal ( _rasping, ragged_ )...the cab groans and shifts. From the corner of her eye, through the spider-web cracks of the armored window, Avaline sees burning red.

Beasts, all around them.

 _She should have just_ _ **stayed**_ _._

"God, how many times have we made this run? Why would-?"

" _Shh!_ "

It can see them. It has their scent. There is no escape. And it knows that. She looks into its eye and she sees only malice. An abominable shine.

 _There is no escape, and it wants us to suffer with the knowledge. It takes pleasure in our pain._

The thought arrives from nowhere, but it feels so right...Avaline shivers, and twists to brace her legs. Reaches to pull at the straps holding her in place. The _beast_ outside perks at the movement, head tilted with interest. The couple huddled in the back hiss at her to stop.

 _This wasn't supposed to happen again_.

Again? What exactly is happening _again_? She clings to that question as she frees herself. As she moves so carefully to stand, and then crouch, on the door opposite. This...brings to light no memories, no new fears. She hardly feels anything at all. So why had she thought-?

 _She was supposed to stay where it was safe._

The thought had plagued her for days. But she realizes something, as she stares up into bone-white teeth that _click-click-click_ against something stronger than glass. Something that makes her stomach churn and her mind reel.

The thought is in her head, but _she is not the one thinking it_.

"Avaline." She looks away, looks to Stella...wide-eyed, so pale, clutching an arm close to her body. Bruising, swelling. Something broken, in the crash. Sloane, beside her, is grim-faced and stoic, despite his broken nose. He's the one with the gun. It looks pathetically unsuited for the _beast_ outside.

Stella doesn't say anything more, and Sloane doesn't break the silence either. It's…

Resigned.

 _There isn't any choice, is there?_

The pain, when it comes, catches her by surprise. Whatever sense of herself she'd recovered just... _goes away_. It hurts, so badly, that she can't even find the breath to scream. A red-hot poker driving into her eye, into her _skull._ Punching through the scars on her back to catch her guts and tear out the mark on her stomach. And her _heart_...it races, pounding so hard and fast she feels as though it's about to tear itself apart.

It's a moment, and an eternity, and in this time Avaline _burns_.

Until it's over. Until she comes back to herself.

Metal groans in protest as claws pull and tear. The _beast_ overhead, tired of watching, making its way into the cab.

She takes a deep breath. Catches the scent of rotted breath. Burning rubber. Copper blood...Sloane's. His hands tremble, faintly, as he and Stella hold their gun. Their meaning, their purpose, clear.

There's something still burning, in her. Too apathetic to be hate. To deadly to be disgust.

The door crashes. A bone-masked muzzle snarls down at her.

Avaline draws back the hammer of her flintlock, raises it above her head, and _fires_.

* * *

 _ **xxxxxxxxxx**_

* * *

What follows is a blur. A collection of disconnected moments. Flashes of events, only vaguely held in memory afterward.

Pressure, impact, an ache in her hand and wrist as she slashes through fur, flesh, and bone. Wild, violent movement, pain in her hands as she grips the bladed whip at both ends to saw through a neck. The pain of teeth, clamped around her arm, and the stinging relief as smoking viscera spills over the wound.

And at all times, there is a pattern. A form. The surety of habit, of ritual.

When it's over, when there's stillness again, Avaline is left feeling empty. She hurts, fatigue heavy in her limbs, mouth dry, throat sore, hands numbed from her white-knuckled grip.

Metal creaks, and she throws herself away from the noise, rolling past a dissipating corpse to regain her feet and face...face…

Sloane. Peering out from the cab. He meets her eyes-

Her eyes. She drops the pistol, leaning heavily on the...cane, as she reaches up to probe at her face. To close her right eye, and track the movement of her hand with her left.

"You alright?"

She has no answer for him.


	8. Chapter 8

" _...musn't be angry with yourself. Some things…"_

 _A soft voice. Cool fingers on fevered skin._

" _...born of...how could she not?"_

 _She wonders, and wants to ask. She struggles to see. But before she can focus-_

-consciousness invades, with the faint but jarring sensation of arrested motion. Her eyes are open before she recognizes it, light and color burning away whatever haze of sleep might have lingered. There's nothing she can do but try (desperately, fruitlessly) to cling to those last impressions. Faint shreds of a dream she _knows_ she should remember-

"Have a good nap?"

Her neck is stiff, her mouth dry. Less than an hour's rest has done nothing to remove the heavy aching in her arms, or to ease the pounding in her temples.

Avaline nods, nevertheless, and offers her latest guide something like a smile. "I'm just thankful for an uneventful trip."

"Oh, I hear you. Some of the stories I've heard…" He chuckles, the car quieting as he retrieves his key and shoulders the door open. "Come on then, let's get you settled."

Settled.

She scrubs the sleep from her eyes and follows him to the door of the station.

She's made it, despite the obstacles that had so suddenly presented themselves. All it had taken was a call to the number she'd been given, and she was giving Sloane and Stella her farewells. Following Officer Hide from the waystation they'd sheltered in. Now...now she was in Vale. A city more massive and alive than she had ever...seen?

(Aching hands itch, but she doesn't reach for her notebook.)

Her tired brain latches instead to the idea that Sal had been right. Vale is too bright, in the early morning. Too much noise. Too many people, even in their short walk from the side of the road to the doors of the station. Inside is...better, by some measure, but any improvement is offset by the fact that many of _these_ bustling strangers are armed.

Her cane clicks against the tile, knuckles white as she leans on it for support. Seeking some sort of comfort there. Wondering why she should feel so conflicted _now_. She'd come this far already, and to be so easily shaken felt-

"Hey." Officer Hide, having noticed she wasn't following him anymore, returns to her side with obvious concern written in his features. "You okay? Still shook up?"

Avaline shakes her head to dispel the irrational worry, to focus herself on the business at hand. "I'll be fine." He doesn't look certain, and she realizes belatedly that she's wringing her hands; she stops, let's them drop to her sides, but of course it's too late. "...please, lead the way."

He does.

* * *

 _ **xxxxxxxxxx**_

* * *

The office where she's to meet Detective Marsh hardly qualifies for the term. A cramped and claustrophobic room wedged beneath a staircase, what little space there is dominated by a desk and collection of cabinets. It can hardly be a comfortable place to work, and offers a rather... _inauspicious_ impression of the man she's come to meet.

At the very least, she can appreciate the isolation of it.

Voices and footsteps outside the door herald a new arrival, and Avaline turns as the door is opened. As a slight man in shirt and tie slips inside. The Detective, presumably.

"Hi, sorry, just had to run some, uh, copies." He holds the sheaf of papers up for a moment, before edging past her as though expecting a reprimand. Though, perhaps it's simply caution; the wary shuffle around his desk speaks of many a barked shin. "Get everything in order for you."

"And I appreciate it." She offers a strained smile. "Especially considering I arrived almost a day later than had been arranged."

"Well, maybe. But it isn't like it was your fault, was it?"

 _It wasn't. But all of this could have been avoided._

Avaline cringes as the pressure spikes. Puts a hand to her head. Stops, when she feels worn gauze instead of bare skin.

Detective Marsh looks concerned, setting papers aside and leaning over his desk. "Hey, are you-"

" _Yes_." It's sharp, sharper than she may have intended. But it's been said. It's past. Avaline closes her eye, takes a deep breath, and lets her hand drop. "Simply tired." Exhausted. Drained. Very, very determined to maintain some semblance of control, over whatever she can. "Thank you, for your concern. But I would prefer we waste no more time."

He doesn't seem as though he believes her. But he doesn't pursue the matter, focusing instead on the documents he'd brought together for their meeting. "Right, you probably want to get settled in already...well, I already read a lot of the, uh, the stuff that was sent over? So I guess we'll do some new stuff."

'New stuff' involves a series of pointed questions. Whether she'd noticed anyone following her, at any point. Whether she'd suffered any crossing-over of her senses. Whether she felt that she had experienced any strange compulsions to wander away from town, or to commit any illegal acts.

Then there were photographs. Sharp, glossy things. The Detective asks if any of the people in them jog a memory; none do, of course.

"Hunters whose semblances could do the sort of things you're having trouble with. Ones that we have on file, anyway."

A surprising number of strangers who might be capable of hollowing her mind. It was a disquieting thought. And not one she needed to linger on. "I couldn't say if I've met any of them, unfortunately."

"Yeah, it would have been kinda nice to have a lead on that."

But there isn't one to be had. Not in those photos, nor in the 'Missing Persons' files that had been gathered and so carefully sorted. Instead, the meeting is short and unsatisfying. No answers. _Still_ , no answers. The frustration is enough to turn the fuzzy pressure in her skull into a proper headache.

 _Why can't she just rest?_

A pained sigh hisses from between her teeth, as Avaline fights the impulse to pace. There's no room here, in any case. "I appreciate your time, Detective, but I think we'll need to table this issue. I still need to arrange for a place to stay, while I'm in the city."

"You don't have someone you can stay with?"

She stares at him in silence, and after a few moments the absurdity of that question seems to occur to him. _Then_ she speaks, making a concerted effort to keep the (misdirected) irritation from her voice. "I've money enough for temporary lodgings, though even that is limited. Should we find no answers soon, I'll need to make arrangements to support myself."

"Right, sure. That makes sense. Not exactly a vacation for you, or anything." He smiles as he says it, trying to inject some weak humor into things. It's not terribly effective, and he sobers after a few awkward moments. "So you need a place to stay, and a way to pay for it...what sort of work do you think you'd be looking for?"

Well...that _was_ a question, wasn't it?

Perhaps she'll have at least the one answer, before the day is done.

* * *

 _ **xxxxxxxxxx**_

* * *

Avaline checks the written address one more time, turning her attention back to the nondescript building the driver had brought her to. Brickwork and shaded glass...if it weren't for the elevated roadway towering above, she would almost find the street comfortable.

It wasn't, though; not enough to be lingering when she had business inside.

The entryway is a bit of an oddity. Free-swinging double doors aren't particularly exotic, and offer no real deterrence to her unannounced arrival. It's the wall of translucent glass that brings her up short, sets her looking for a lever, or pressure plate, or perhaps something as simple as a knocker. Surely she isn't meant to _break_ her way in.

In the end, she decides to treat it as any other door, rapping her knuckles on a spot beside the vertical join at the very center of the wall. The noise is deeper than she'd have expected, more resonant...and actually, feeling the smooth of its surface under her hand, it doesn't seem much like _glass_ at all-

Footsteps. A faint, shadowy figure on the other side of the wall...which draws apart. Sliding open, not to admit her, but to allow a man in a sharp, black suit to glare out from behind mirrored glasses.

He looks her up and down, assessing, and Avaline allows it for the moment. Gives little notice to his biting 'club's closed'. Focuses instead on what she can see _beyond_ the doors, now. If she tips her head just right, she can _almost_ make out the bar. The man behind it.

There's a prickle of discomfort, and she averts her gaze again.

"I'm looking for work." She breaks the silence before it can become confrontational. "And I was told one Hei Xiong might have need of someone to tend his bar."

It didn't seem as though the suited employee knew just how to respond to that, his expression running a gamut of suspicion, determination, uncertainty, discomfort...after a moment or two of indecision, he shrugged and stepped aside. "So we'll have a chat with the boss."

Well, it was a good start, if nothing else.

 _A foot in the door._

"You, uh, got a little somethin'..."

Avaline took a moment to dab at the droplet that had escaped from beneath her bandages. Smelled salt, and faint copper, and something cold and undefinable.

"Thank you."

"Yeah, no problem."

Later, she'll question it.

Right now, she has a job to procure.


End file.
